


French Vanilla Cappuccino

by TrashPile11



Category: Coffee Shop - (SNL Sketch), SNL - Fandom, Saturday Night Live
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Blow Jobs, Choking, Coffee Shops, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Hand & Finger Kink, Himbo, Oral Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader is AFAB - Freeform, Spanking, author is very sorry, ball worship, reader has no pronouns, reader is a barista
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26884057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashPile11/pseuds/TrashPile11
Summary: “You better not. I will Krav Maga you right now. You know I know Krav Maga, right?” That finger. That thick meaty finger, pointing at you as he accused you of lying to him about his drink and then threatened you with martial arts should not be making you wet.And yet.A tall handsomeidiotcomes into Domenico’s Coffee.
Relationships: Domenico's Guy (SNL)/Reader, Domenico's Guy/reader
Comments: 24
Kudos: 52





	French Vanilla Cappuccino

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to every barista/ex-barista out there who’s ever wanted to fuck the stupid out of a customer.
> 
> I see you.
> 
> My utmost thanks to [Jam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chump) for having the funniest/hottest recommendations and being an amazing beta (and friend!) who encourages me to write what I want no matter how self indulgent. 

  
You’d been working at Domenico’s Coffee for years now. A seasoned veteran barista, you liked to think it was tough to ruffle your feathers. Someone being rude? Kill ‘em with kindness. Someone fell asleep at a table again? Wake ‘em up and lay down the law.

But every now and then a customer would just get. under. your. skin.

When he walked in you couldn’t help but stare. Gold chain peeking out of a red shirt with one too many buttons undone, navy blazer accentuating his broad shoulders. You took in the way the sleeves were far too short, highlighting how _long_ he was. It was actually his hair that really did it though: the top quarter of his dark glossy waves pulled back into the tiniest ponytail. How could someone look so stupid and so fucking _hot_?

He walked to the counter, set down his bag, and opened that big mouth.

“So this place is called Domenico’s huh?”

“Yep,” said, popping the _p_ for emphasis. _Read the fucking sign, genius._

“I guess that kinda makes it mine on account of my name’s Domenico.”

 _Never heard that one before._ You gave a halfhearted polite chuckle before steering the conversation back to business. “Well in that case, Domenico, I bet you know what you want.”

“Oh don’t call me Domenico; that’s my last name. Name’s Marco. Marco Domenico. Named after my grandpa Marco. Was almost named Antonio after my great grandpa but my Pa said there were already enough Tony’s in the family. Y’see I got my one cousin Tony-“

_Is this guy for real? He’s gonna give me his whole fucking family story. Dude. Order your drink. Let me do my job so I can go back to fucking around on Twitter._

“Wow you really have a big family, huh? So about that drink. Pumpkin stuff is really big right now for fall. I love our Dirty Chai with a half shot of pumpkin. Or is there something you had in mind?”

He blinked at you for a moment, considering what you’d said. You tried not to salivate over how soft and silky his hair looked, trying to decide if you wanted to have it or just run your fingers through his.

“Nah I don’t do none of that fussy pumpkin stuff. I just want a French vanilla cappuccino. Large.”

 _Here we go_. “Ok Marco, well, I’d be happy to make that, but first I want to discuss your expectations. Did you want this to be like what you’d get from one of those cappuccino machines at a gas station?”

“Of course I don’t want no gas station coffee. That’s why I came to Domenico’s! Keep it in the family!” He kept pointing at you as he spoke, wide finger jamming in your direction. You gulped as you noticed how large his hands were.

“Ok, I understand that you don’t want gas station coffee. But is that what you want it to _be like?_ ”

“You think I don’t know what I’m ordering, toots? You're pretty, but they sure don’t pay you to be smart. Just go ahead and make me my French vanilla cappuccino. And I want a _biscootie_ cookie.”

“Alright, that’ll be $6.39.”

He pulled a wallet and separate coin purse out of his bag to pay you in exact change before you turned to grab his biscotti, handed it to him, and moved to prep his drink. A few minutes later you were setting the cup down in front of him.

“French vanilla cappuccino for Marco,” you called out, looking him in the eye.

You watched as he looked down at the 8oz cup you used for your large cappuccinos before he picked it up, giant hands absolutely dwarfing it.

“This a fucking large? And why’s it so light? Where’s the rest of it?”

You plastered a customer service smile back onto your face before giving your standard response.

“Cappuccinos come in 6 or 8 ounces, so yes, that’s the large. It’s about ⅓ foam so there’s a lot of air in there. I promise that’s the right drink, though.”

His eyes narrowed at you as you spoke, and oh, that finger was back to pointing at you.

“Hold the phone, you think you can pull one over on me, toots? Are you even a real _batista_?”

“I promise you, I’m not trying to pull one over on you. And I’m definitely a real **_barista_**.” You could feel your facade cracking. How were you supposed to have a professional interaction with a man _that hot_ while he was acting like _that_? No manager would fault you for your behavior at this point.

“You better not. I will Krav Maga you right now. You know I know Krav Maga, right?” That finger. That thick meaty finger, pointing at you as he accused you of lying to him about his drink and then threatened you with martial arts should _not_ be making you wet. _And yet._

“Marco, please calm down. I’d love to make it up to you, however I can,” you offered coyly, making doe eyes at him.

“You’re damn right you’re gonna make it up to me. Gonna make me a new cappuccino **and** get me another _biscootie._ ”

That fucking finger. You couldn’t stop staring at it, imagining how it would stretch you. The man may be annoying, but he had a lot of passion. You could think of a better use for that passion.

“What are you lookin at my fuckin finger like that for? Why’s your face look like that? Geeze, toots, lookin like you need a dick in ya- oh.”

Your face flushed as he gave you a proper once over, eyes lingering on the swell of your chest. You were grateful to 5am you for wearing your favorite cute blue swing dress _with pockets_ today, though you wish that you had put on a bit of mascara. Infuriating customers were a dime a dozen, but you’d never come across a hot one before.

“So is that it, toots? You make my drink wrong because you want me to get mad and fuck ya? You could’ve just asked, y’know. You’re a cute little thing, didn’t need to make me wanna pull out my Krav Maga.”

“I- I didn’t- oh fuck’s sake. Yes. That’s what happened. I wanted to upset you. I’m clearly not a professional who made what you ordered,” you deadpanned, eyes rolling. He really put that emphasis on infuriating.

“See, toots? It wasn’t so hard to admit it. Why don’t you take a break, hmm? The shop seems slow. Lock the doors so you and ol’ Marco can dirty up that back counter.”

You really shouldn’t. You really _really_ shouldn’t. And somehow your feet were moving you to the front door, your hand was reaching out to flip the deadbolt, and your mouth was saying, “C’mon.”

You turned back to him to see a grin like the cheshire cat spread across his face. His dimple would be cute if you didn’t want to punch him in it. His eyes were raking over you again, taking in every detail of your coffee splattered outfit. He lingered on the spill of this morning’s dark roast down your left leg.

“Coffee goes _in_ the cup, sweets,” he jabbed as you approached him, reaching out your hand to grab his and pull him into the back room. There was no door, but you couldn’t see in there from the street, and that’s all you cared about.

“Oh shut up, Marco.”

“Messy little thing, ain’t ya? Let’s see how much of a mess we can make you.”

Your panties flooded a bit at his words, and you knew he’d make good on that promise. He was behind you and suddenly his hand was pushing you down to lean over the counter. _I’ll never be able to batch beans here again_. His other hand skimmed up your thigh, flipping your skirt up to expose your soaked black panties before rubbing over your ass in light circles.

“First we gotta punish you for makin’ my drink wrong and bein' all rude just now tellin' me to shut up. How many ounces did you say that 'large' was, toots?”

“Ei- eight.” You weren’t expecting this. You were _definitely_ not expecting this. The man said _biscootie_ for crying out loud. _He can eat my biscootie any day though. Heh, biscoochie._ You smiled to yourself at your pun, but were quickly brought back by the hand on your back climbing up to grip into your hair.

“Alright then, eight it is. Count them for me, won’t you, toots?”

His hand, that giant mitt you’d been staring at earlier as he’d pointed so aggressively, fell down onto your left ass cheek and you almost forgot how to breathe, air getting caught in your throat.

“Funny, could’ve sworn I asked you to count. Guess we’ll try again. Start from one.”

And with that his hand was striking the same spot again. The pain was on a delay, the sound cracking through the air a second before it hit. And, oh, did it hit.

“One.”

“Better, toots. But seein’ as how I’m a good customer I think you should treat me with a bit more respect.” His hand came down again, your right cheek assaulted by this infuriating man in his stupid ill fitting blazer.

“Two, sir.”

“Yes, that’s it. Marco Domenico, that’s sir to you, is gonna make sure you learn your lesson.” Another smack, this time slightly lower, hitting that space where ass meets thigh and making you let out a small cry.

“Three, sir.”

Another crack, another burst of pain.

“Four, sir.”

“That’s right. Ol’ Marco teachin’ you a lesson.”

“Five, sir.”

“You should be thankin’ me for lettin’ you make all this up to me.”

“Six, thank you sir.”

“Oh you _can_ be obedient, huh?”

“Seven, thank you sir.”

His fingers delved between your slightly spread thighs, pushing your panties aside to find your drenched core. Two fingers held you open as one dragged lightly back and forth from dripping hole to throbbing clit. You let out a moan at the contact.

“You’re soaked! Fuckin’ slut, gettin’ off on my punishment.”

His fingers were abruptly gone, and you heard one last loud crack. The pain struck a moment later. You’d never been struck there before, but the way your cunt clenched at the pain it’d been administered was something you couldn’t ignore. You screamed.

“Eight, thank you sir.”

“You may not be a good _batista,_ but you’re good for this at least. Messy slut.”

His hands were off you then. You heard a zipper and turned your head back to see him there in that ridiculous outfit only with a huge hard-on poking straight out of it. You locked eyes with him, and his mouth lifted at the corner.

“Like what you see, toots? The Domenico family does pretty well, huh?”

You rose from the counter, turning around and reaching a hand down to grasp at the monster this man hid in his pants. His breath stuttered, hands going limp at his sides. You pumped him a few times.

“It’s pretty nice, Marco. But why don’t you show me what you can do with it.”

“That’s not very respectful, sweets,” he said, one hand coming up to grasp at your throat. “I teach you one lesson, and you’re immediately askin’ for another.” His fingers flexed, cutting off just a hint of blood supply, making your head spin. “If you can’t use your mouth to say nice things how’s about we find it another task.”

His hands guided you down to your knees before one grasped in your hair and the other held his cock in front of your lips.

“Don’t get all shy on me now, toots. Go on.”

You opened your mouth to flick your tongue out for a quick taste. He grunted, and you quite liked that it shut him up. You opened your lips and took his head in, feeling the weight and warmth on your tongue. The groan he let out made you tingle. One hand coming to grasp at the base of him, the other gently massaging his heavy balls, you swirled your tongue to see if you could get him to make it again before bobbing up and down on him until he was hitting as deep as you could take him. Both hands curled in your hair, he pulled you off and wrenched your head to look up at him.

“Shit, toots, you practice these skills on the _biscooties_?”

You hunched down further to suck one shaved globe into your mouth, making sure to pump his saliva-slick cock with your hand. His breath stuttered. You did the same to the other side, pulling the heavy mass between your lips to lave it with your tongue. Saliva dripped from the corners of your mouth, but you were lost in the heady masculine flavor on your tongue and the blissful grunts filling the room.

“Fuck, gonna make me finish too fast, Jesus!”

He was lifting you then, grabbing you and placing you to rest your ass on the counter.

“Look at you all covered in spit. Such a messy slut!”

You blushed but quickly found yourself blessing regulation countertops for putting you at the perfect height for him to stand between your legs, spread you open, and grind against you. The sounds you made, staring at the gold chain bouncing on his chest as he rutted against your clothed cunt, were breathy and nothing like you.

“You like that, sweets? Like when I bump against that little clit?”

“Y-yes, sir,” you whined, “more. Please.”

“More! Demanding little thing, ain’t ya? Alright I’ll give you more. Gotta go grab somethin’ real quick.”

He ran back to the dining room, returning moments later rummaging through his bag. He triumphantly held up a gold packet, set his bag down gingerly a few feet down the counter from you, and ripped the packet open with his teeth. You squirmed on your prep counter as he slid the condom down himself before finally returning to stand before you.

His fingers hooked into your panties, dragging them down your legs. He reached to drop his prize unceremoniously into his bag and angled his body back between your spread thighs.

“Savin’ those for later. Consider it your official apology. You ready for this, sweets? Gonna give you the ol’ Domenico’s family jewels right in this here Domenico’s.” He waggled his eyebrows at you as he lined himself up at your entrance.

“Oh my GOD, just shut up and fuck me!” You demanded, trying to move down on him.

“Hey now, I thought you’d learned your lesson,” his eyes looked so disappointed, but you couldn’t stop staring at the tuft of his ponytail over the top of his head. “Since you’re bein’ so rude we’re gonna have to get creative. You’re gonna keep this here chain,” he flicked it up with his thumb, “in your mouth. If you let it drop I’m gonna stop fucking you. That’s the deal, toots.”

You looked angrily into his eyes as he held the chain out to you, but your mouth opened and you bent forward to take the necklace between your teeth. You gripped his arms, ignoring the way the shoulder pads of his blazer bunched up above your hands.

“That ain’t so bad, now, is it toots?”

His first thrust was small, tentative. He held you by the hips as he slipped in just the tip before retreating. And then he did it again. And again. Your pussy and hands clenched around him. You wanted more.

“Pleath, thir.”

“Oh I like how desperate you sound. What do you want, sweets?”

“Fuck me, thir. Pleath. More.”

His hands gripped your hips tighter as he gave you one powerful thrust. One powerful thrust to bury him to the hilt in you, balls smacking into your ass. An inhuman sound reverberated in the back room, and you flushed to realize it came from you.

“What a nice sound that is. Why you gotta be so rude when you can just make it again?”

He set a pace of intense, powerful thrusts, and you felt yourself dripping onto the counter below you as you did, indeed, make that sound again. Your hands made their way into his hair, mussing the silky locks as you watched a few dark tendrils fall into his face and get plastered there by the sweat accumulating as he railed into you.

“Such a wet, messy little cunt. Can feel ya creamin’ around me. You gonna cum for me, toots? Gonna cum on my cock?”

You felt yourself spasming around him, felt yourself edging closer to the abyss. He brought a hand down to thumb at your clit, and your head fell back, mouth opening on a loud moan. And then he pulled out and stepped back. You scrambled to get him back, to get back to the orgasm you were so near.

“Told you if ya dropped the chain I’d stop fuckin’ ya, sweets.”

“Auugh PLEASE! Please sir I was so close.”

He stepped back to you, brushing a hand down your hair, soothing you. “I know, toots, but you were bad so’s I gotta punish you. Lean back on your hands now.” His hand fell down on your wet lips with a loud crack, ripping a scream from your throat as moisture splattered into the air.

“Messy.” Slap. “Little.” Slap. “Slut.” Slap.

Moisture dotted your dress and thighs, and when his hand came up to your neck it was damp.

“Now be good for me, toots, and I’ll let you cum on my cock.”

He was in you again, one hand on your hip gripping tight enough to bruise and the other squeezing gently at your throat as he plowed into your waiting core. Your ascent was faster this time, like your body couldn’t wait to get back to the precipice it was at only moments before. As you felt yourself fluttering around him, he brought the hand from your neck down to thumb at your clit once more.

“Go ahead, toots, cum for me.”

You shattered, screaming obscenities into the air as he pumped into you a few more times before his hips stuttered and he collapsed, leaning into the counter, crowding you.

You cleared your throat. “Well that’s certainly not how I expected to spend my break today.”

“Well, break’s probably over. You gonna make my drink right now or what?”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m- I’m so sorry. This was a TrashPile Production.
> 
> Additional thanks to [Bailey](https://twitter.com/clydeslefttit) for “biscoochie” because it made me fucking cackle.
> 
> Check out [my Twitter](https://twitter.com/TrashPile11) or [Jam’s Twitter](https://twitter.com/adamsmackler) for some roaring horny good times.


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